


Said the Spider

by rustywrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cannibalism, Character Death, M/M, Manipulation, Other, Psychological Manipulation, alternate universe - Hannibal, non-con, seriously this is really uncomfortable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustywrites/pseuds/rustywrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been working as a special agent for the FBI to track down violent criminals. It's a line of work that takes its toll on people. His psychologist, Dr. Peter Hale, keeps him sane until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Said the Spider

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing is inspired by [this fantastic art](http://2amsugarrush.tumblr.com/post/70793060397/now-have-this-hannibal-au-and-im-never-going-to)
> 
> I saw it on my dash and my reaction was almost immediate. 
> 
> This isn't a strict port of the NBC Hannibal verse but it takes the vast majority of it's cues from it and some others from the Hannibal film - If you're familiar with the movie you'll probably be able to pin point the scenes I'm referencing but it's not a huge deal. 
> 
> Basically this entire thing is really upsetting and designed to be really upsetting and you should definitely proceed with caution. 
> 
> [I'm on tumblr here.](http://rustypolished.tumblr.com)

It was never supposed to happen this way. 

By the time he'd put the pieces together – so fucking obvious, in retrospect, so fucking clear, if only you would've opened your eyes, Stilinski, if only you would've – it was too late. He thinks that maybe it was too late before any of this had even started. 

He is the devil, Mr. Stilinski. He is smoke. You will never catch him. 

Daehler's words echo in his head even now, though they sound far away. Like he's hearing them through water instead of the thick acrylic walls of the asylum. 

His head throbs. 

His hands are free but he can't move his legs, feels like he's been weighted down somehow. Distantly his brain supplies the word 'drugged' but he can't quite conjure up the meaning. He recognizes the dining room as somewhere he used to feel safe. 

–

“So tell me, Mr. Stilinski, are your nightmares still seeping into your waking life?”

“Yes. Well, obviously. That's the nature of this line of work, isn't it? Nightmares are our specialty.”

Peter smiles at that, and it's barely there. Just a twitch at the corner's of his mouth. If Stiles hadn't been so well versed in reading him by now he would've missed it entirely. 

“Of course,” he says, sounding pleased. “And that, Stiles, is why you are here. But the dinner table is no place for talk of such things, yes? Or has Derek got you so tightly wound around his fingers that you can't help it?” 

It's a purr, low and predatory and it makes Stiles shuffle the food on his plate anxiously with his fork. He knows, of course, that Dr. Hale and Derek Hale, the head of the behavioral sciences department at Quantico are related in some distant way, their names and similar bone structures a dead giveaway even for someone who doesn't work closely with both – but each time Dr. Hale brings up Derek in casual conversation like this, Stiles feels something behind his skin begin to squirm. 

He doesn't offer up an answer to Dr. Hale's rhetoric and Dr. Hale does not press him for one. 

He doesn't stop smiling, either. 

–

“You need to take a break, Stiles. You look like shit.” 

Lydia Martin's a psychiatrist as well, just like Dr. Hale, but every time they speak Stiles is struck by the polarity between the two of them. Lydia's easy words hit him like firecrackers to Peter's oil-and-water ebb and flow. She moves with a grace that does not seem practiced or timed. She laughs without sounding too hollow - 

Stiles shakes his head, breaking that train of thought, not liking the way it makes him feel as though there is something looming just behind him, just over his shoulder. 

“Derek needs me in on this, you know that – And you said yourself, you trust Peter's assessment. He's cleared me for field duty, Lydia. I'm his case to study, not yours.”

There's more venom in the words than he means, but he's so, so tired. 

Lydia's mouth falls to a straight line but the hand she lays on his shoulder is gentle. 

“Stiles, working yourself to the absolute brink isn't – It's not what he wants for you, okay? What the two of you do in your personal lives is your business, but please don't let that start to blur the lines between professional responsibility and romantic devotion.” 

She looks like she's pitying him but trying not to. It makes Stiles' lips curl into a sneer; it makes him duck away from her touch like it pains him. 

“You're right, Lydia. It is my business.” 

He slams the door behind him on his way out of her office, leaving her with both hands braced across her desk, pitying look still infuriatingly in place. 

–

He and Derek - 

They weren't. It wasn't romantic. It couldn't be. Not in this line of work. 

The kiss had been a mistake and completely inappropriate on top of that. The product of exhaustion anf frustration and the sort of emotions that can only be called up by dealing with death and brutality on a daily basis. 

They had agreed to that much. 

They had moved on.

(He'd never moved on.)

–

Sometimes the want in his chest would well up in waves and he'd inevitably find himself in the lobby of Dr. Hale's office. 

Peter would greet him with a smile each time, a gentle touch to his arm, a 'Come in, Stiles' that sounded so, so genuine. 

And he would.

And he'd talk.   
He'd talk about the waking nightmares, the way he sometimes would see the faces of the dead behind his eyelids each time he blinks moving around him like a zoetrope, the way he sometimes forgets that he's not a killer, sometimes forgets who he is at all. He talks about wanting things he cannot have, shouldn't want, can't stop wanting. He talks because talking comes easy and Dr. Hale's impassive face is welcoming in ways that no one else's can be. 

Dr. Hale never looks at him with pity. 

He talks. 

–

Stiles figures out that the missing body parts are being eaten by the killer by sheer chance. Dumb luck. A cook book he finds in Dr. Hale's living room that talks about exotic organs like lungs and hearts and tongues. 

Lungs that Erica Reyes' corpses was missing. 

A tongue, like the body of the Boyd kid who'd been opened up so artfully and re-arranged so thoroughly, forensics hadn't noticed the missing tongue until a day later when McCall had been pouring over the reports. 

For a split second his mind flicks back to Laura Hale's missing liver and kidneys from the case still open from almost 10 years ago. The case that had brought Derek, and, Stiles guesses, in someway himself, into this mess. A case that had never been solved. 

A cook book. 

Stiles felt his blood run cold and then he didn't feel anything at all. 

–

The dining room table was lit romantically. Candles and a dim chandelier. In his haze he might think it's beautiful. 

He feels a presence behind him followed by a hand coming to coil over his own. 

The smell of cooked meat and notes of wine and cologne are enough to make his head begin to spin through his daze. 

“...Dr. Hale?” His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “Peter?” 

The doctor exhales against his ear and Stiles feels his eyes fall closed. Behind them, he sees glass eyed corpses splayed out across beautifully set tables. He can't move his legs. Peter his guiding his hands to cut into the meat on his plate like he's a puppet and he can't scream. 

“It was you.” He says, “it's been you all along.” There are tears prickling at his eyes that he blinks too slowly to stop. 

Come in to my web, said the spider, to the fly. 

“It's always been you.” 

A cook book. 

Peter tsks in his ear, guiding both their hands up to Stiles' mouth with a fork full of red red red meet and Stiles can't fight him, not through the fog around his eyes, not through the warm, heavy weight in his chest. 

“You always wanted his heart, didn't you, Stiles?” Peter practically coos, (oil-and-water) and he tries – he tries – but Stiles cannot bring his throat or his stomach to retch, can't make himself vomit out the meat sliding down his throat, threatening to gag him.

12 hours from now when Derek does not report for work, he will be declared missing. 

He will never be found. 

Peter guided another fork full of muscle to his lips and Stiles chokes out a sob but it's soft, a million miles away. 

Peter smiles and even without seeing it Stiles can feel the honesty there, a truth to him unlike one Stiles has ever seen. Predatory. 

“That's my good boy.”


End file.
